Кен Бруен - The Hackman Blues

That’s all she wrote.

We were burning rubber and on to Camberwell New Road before I could exhale. Procol Harum were doing ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’.

Well, they would, wouldn’t they?

You know how an expression enters the public domain. The Sun shows it on the front page, a Royal is caught flaunting it and bingo, it’s everyday speech.

From Minder we got:

‘ ’Er indoors.’

Dick Emery gave us:

‘Oo, you are awful.’

Larry Grayson:

‘Shut that door.’

Liz the Biz:

‘Annus horribilis.’

Yeah. Like that.

Now Oasis gave us a truly awful one:

‘What’s the story?’

And the yobos answer:

‘Morning Glory.’

The Gallagher Brothers up on stage, giving it large, and finally you thank Christ you’re not young... and have to fake liking those fucks.

We decided to watch Roz in shifts. With three of us, we could break it up comfortably. Reed had the first and I was to relieve him. Masks to be worn. I stopped off at McDonalds, ordered breakfasts to go.

The windows of the warehouse were double sealed. No one was getting in or out. I banged on the door. Reed opened it and I said:

‘Where’s yer bloody mask?’

‘I no be wearing dat shee-hit.’

‘She’ll recognise you.’

‘She be up at de Cambridge... yeah...? How long ’fore she figure who we be?’

I didn’t wear mine either.

Roz was curled up on the bed, but facing forward now. Her eyes looked at me. They were hopping with anger. No signs of her being intimidated.

I said:

‘Sorry for the inconvenience but it’s only for a little while. Here’s breakfast.’ I put it down beside her, said, ‘What’s the story.’

And she slung the breakfast across the room.

It splattered against the cardboard boxes, bits of scrambled eggs beginning a yellow descent. I opened mine, popped a sausage in my mouth, then washed it down with scalding coffee.

Reed said:

‘Dese eggs be good, bro’.’

I had some bacon, nice and crispy and between chews, said:

‘Rosaleen, you probably think being a girl gives you some protection. Like a man won’t beat on a woman...’

I slapped her hard on the face, open-palmed and as her head jerked back, I back slapped her again.

‘You were wrong, lady. Now first thing you do is clean up that mess... then you shower and we start over. You refuse to shower and me and the black boy, we’ll wash you... okay?’

I’ll give her this, she didn’t cry. Then she moved off the bed and headed for the boxes.

I said to Reed:

‘You push off. I’ll catch you later.’

‘Yeah, git me some z-s. Yo’ want I call Leon?’

Roz said, ‘He’ll have your balls on a plate.’

I looked at her.

‘That what they teach you up at Cambridge?’

‘You’ll be sorry, Leon will tear you limb from limb.’

Reed said, ‘I be sorry already.’

After she’d cleaned up the mess, Reed added:

‘When dis be over, yo’ come over mo’ crib, do me some cleanin’... be good for de home-boys, see me got white help.’

And he left.

She took the shower and I left a tracksuit for her. I went to the other end of the warehouse to give an appearance of privacy. Turned on the radio and caught the news. No word on Brixton. Leon hadn’t reported it. Quiet surprise.

She emerged naked, posed... hand on hip, said, ‘What are you staring at?’

‘Fat thighs, you did right skipping breakfast.’

That got her into the tracksuit but she tried for a point, ‘You probably prefer boys.’

‘Moi?’

I made some fresh coffee and she took it, asked, ‘Got any ciggies?’

‘Funny you should ask.’

And took down a box marked ‘sponges.’ Opened it up, pulled out a carton of B&H.

She said, ‘Are they low tar?’

‘They’re hot is what they are.’

I found some matches and she was in business. Drew the smoke deep and exhaled with a satisfied, ‘Ah...’

‘You’re done this before, miss.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Oh hey, save us the coupon, I’m collecting for an electric kettle.’

She carefully extracted it then tore it into little pieces.

I said, ‘That comes outa your allowance.’

Thus we passed my shift in aggressive spirits. She’d sulk, then ask about how long we’d keep her and... like that, sometimes I answered, sometimes I sulked. Had to give her another few slaps but other than that, it was no worse than any other first date.

When Danny arrived, I said, ‘No masks.’

‘Just be myself, that it?’

He had a pile of glossy magazines.

Cosmopolitan

Vanity Fair peeking out.

I said:

‘What, no flowers?’

‘Does she want some?’

‘Get in, for fuck’s sake.’

Roz was doing exercises, stopped, said, ‘Another wanker.’

And continued her sit-ups.

Danny looked at me.

I said, ‘I think she likes you.’

He approached her, said, ‘Miss... I brought you some mags, I didn’t know your favourite, so I got a selection.’

She didn’t stop but called out, ‘Jes-us.’

He turned back to me: ‘Any trouble?’

‘Naw, she’s a sweetheart, plus... a slap gets her attention.’ He was indignant.

‘I don’t hit women.’

‘Naw, you hit on them.’

Then a superior grin, the male animal in preening glory.

‘Women wouldn’t be yer strong point, Tone... eh? Not yer field, so to speak.’

‘Gee that hurts. But do keep using my name, mebbe later you can give her my phone number.’

‘Shit... sorry... Tone... erm...’

Roz was up now, interested, said:

‘He’s gay... I knew it...’

Danny shrugged, ‘Sorry.’

I got ready to go, added:

‘Sorry? That helps. Maked it all better. Phew, I’m so happy.’

I looked at Roz, her face shining in triumph, said slowly to her, ‘ Yeah ... I go for men, but not wimps like Leon.’

‘Bye bye, Tone, keep it in yer pants, big boy.’

Outside, I considered and had to confess, she won that one. Maybe it was the Cambridge education, gave her the edge. I’d have to go back to beating her I supposed.

I got my head down and dreamt of Village People. Jeez, nightmares I have known.

One time I tried to kill myself, I needed a rope. Well, I’m English, what did you expect... imagination?

The big hit at the time was

‘Reasons to be Cheerful, Part II.’

Ian Dury and the Blockheads. There’s a name, eh? The arse end of punk. Hugh Cornwell and the Stranglers were on their uppers and Chrissie Hynde wrote for the NME .

Days of Puke.

I’m not saying these events are connected. It’s how it was. I’d watched Gone with the Wind. Of course the inference gets drawn. Vivien Leigh was manic depressive. I never got why Judy Garland is the gay icon, with Vivien there undawned.

And coming off a ferocious bout of euphoria, I had been fucking exalted! And ended exhausted. I bought and sold my car twice in one week.

After the Burning of Atlanta, I stood up and, in the great English tradition, went to the garden shed. Took the rope and coiled it over the beam. Put the noose around my neck and kicked away the chair.

The physical pain was like nothing I ever experienced. I hadn’t done the noose properly and I strangled for minutes, but my neck didn’t break. Got free finally, heavily bruised and mangled. I checked into the Maudsley.

A guy I was bopping one time, was into auto-eroticism. Strangulation to the point of orgasm and seemingly, orgasm like nothing ever before. It would frigging need to be. Course it frequently goes wrong and: